Lord, have mercy
by Naysa
Summary: Ashes to rain, you feel no pain


Inspired by the song Kyrie Eleison by Stellamara.

* * *

The rain falls on his face as he stares at the grey sky above him. His breath comes shallow and slow, every inhalation bringing pain to his chest. Blood warms his lips and slides out of his veins through his wounds coming to rest on the earth that now supports his body. The edges of his sight blurs, black spots dancing in the periphery and he knows what is to come as he lies there, motionless. He can still smell the fire but the rain will put it out soon. Soon it will be over.

Ashes dance in the air and he can see it. Small, tiny particles of a dull aching grey swaying gently with no hurry. Everything seems to move slower as if the world is stopping for him, a last show of kindness, and he tries to blink as little as possible to not miss the beauty his eyes failed to show him when he still had the chance to live.

He can feel it slipping out, sliding through his fingers like smoke, like water. His life. It cannot be contained, it cannot be stopped. Life doesn't wait, life doesn't stop.

The pain is residing but he knows it's just because he's shutting down. He knows it's just because he's dying. He breathes, in and out, and awaits his destiny and the end of his path.

This war has taken so much from him and from the ones he loves; and now he lies there, giving it the last he's got. He closes his eyes, waiting and waiting and waiting.

One last request, however. He has one last request.

"Lord, have mercy," he prays with closed eyes and sighs peacefully, hoping God will hear him, will aid him, and forget all his sins. He prays for benevolence and hopes for a peaceful rest. He does not wish to fight anymore and he's just so, so tired.

He waits. He prays. It's just a matter of seconds, he hopes.

A soft caress on his cheek bring his eyes open without his consent and he stares ahead. Blue. He sees pure blue.

"You call to the wrong God, son of men." The woman is staring at him intently, her eyes half-closed in contempt. "You have northern blood. It should be me and my brothers you call to."

She has blue eyes and a beautiful face with soft features. Long red, silky hair falls from her head like a river of fire and tickles his face. Her index finger is holding his chin up, her face holds no sign of sympathy, but then her expression softens.

"You are almost ready, son of men. Almost done," her head tilts and then she smiles. "You'll be a fine gift for my sister."

Jon doesn't understand. _What is this?_ The woman blinks and he has the feeling she has heard the question. She seems annoyed, bothered, by it. Offended, she looks down at him with rage.

"Knowledge like this should not be lost. You men have forgotten about us, placed another in our place. Tell me, is your God more benevolent? Has your God showed you greater kindness?" She doesn't wait for his reply. "But you are northern. You were calling to a force bigger than you and I came in response, son of men. I am Sansa, the goddess of life. You are leaving my side, but do not fear. Those who leave me are guided kindly." She smiles again and her face holds a docility and kindness it failed to show earlier. "Is what I do. I make sure life flows but I also make sure to bestow gifts upon my sister. You will do just fine for her. You are just perfect."

She looks around, her eyes leaving his face to look at the battlefield surrounding them. She sighs and the sound is pain itself leaving her lungs. The suffering of millions and the helplessness of injustice.

"You ungrateful children have tainted my land. Rickon will be angered by such insolence." She turns to look at him again and frowns. "Of course, you don't know what I speak of. Such ignorance. I'll leave my sister to explain it to you, son of men. As a sign of apology for taking you away so early, I'll grant you a wish, though. Tell me, what's your one and last request?"

He does not know what she speaks of and it's too tired to try and understand. So he repeats his earlier prayer but only one word manages to leave his lips.

"Mercy."

She smiles and her finger caresses his face again. "You shall have it." With her thumb and index fingers, she closes his eyes gently, like a mother luring a child to sleep. Then, once the pressure leaves his eyelids, he opens his eyes again, curiosity forcing him to do so.

He sees grey. Pure, star-like grey.

"What a fine gift you have given me, sister."

The voice is like water running through a river and Jon sighs unconsciously once he hears it. A woman stands above him, a different woman. This one has hair as dark as night and pale skin that glows like moonlight. Grey eyes stare at him intently and a pleased smile graces her sharp features. She does not look soft and unyielding like the one before. She looks fierce but kind, like the edge of a blade caressing skin without breaking it, without drawing blood.

She kneels at his side and gently moves his head to rest on her lap. Her fingers run through his hair lazily and what little of pain was still in his body drifts away from his mind in a soft breeze. It remains there, he knows, but he chooses to ignore it.

"Mercy," he calls again, though he's unsure why. The woman smiles.

"Yes, that's me. That's one of my names. But I believe my sister has introduced herself with her original name, so I shall do the same. I am Arya, goddess of death."

He nods in understanding. _You have come for me, it's time._

She nods as well and smiles. "My sister says you do not know of us, of your own Gods." He keeps silent and she continues passively. "You see, you northern have us as guidance and you carry us in your blood. In times of need, when you call, it is us who answer, though many of you have long forgotten our names."

The sky above her roars and the rain starts falling with more force. She looks up briefly and then looks down at him again. Jon thinks her eyes look like jewels.

"We carry a duty and we carry an element. You see, my sister is life and water. My brother Rickon, he is men—hunt, war, love and hate, everything that make men the creatures they are—and earth. Bran is wisdom—all the knowledge in the world, all the secrets in this realm and others, all that you men ignore—and air. Robb is destiny—the paths you men follow, the choices you have, the endings you'll meet—and fire." She looks up and a few drops of water fall on her face. When she looks down, they slide above her skin and then fall to his face. Fresh and pure still.

"Sansa is now cleansing this field of pain to purify it. Water washes all that is wrong away and leaves the promise of life behind. Had it been Robb's task to purify this land it would now be a waste, it would be an ending, for fire purifies through ultimate destruction."

He's listening intently to every word, drowning in her mesmerizing voice. He can feel himself drifting slowly, slowly. He's dying, she's taking him. He doesn't mind, not in her arms.

"And I am death and spirit. That last element, my dear gift, is unknown to most. But, you see, spirit is energy and energy cannot be destroy. So when Robb leads men to their ending and Sansa lets go of them, I guide their spirit to the beyond, to their new path. Energy cannot be destroyed, so I… transform it. That is my task, and we are your Gods." He nods, whispering all their names under his breath. "Remember them."

He nods again, his chanting going on and on and on. His blood asks him to pray to them, an apology after years of ignorance. Arya leans forward and leaves a soft kiss on his forehead.

"You are almost ready, love, are you ready to go?"

He grabs her hand and tries to voice a question but her other hand comes to rest on his chest as if to stop him.

"Do not worry, you are coming with me. My sweet sister, life, has chosen to give me a gift. You, my dear, are my gift." Her words, for some reason, warm his heart and a smile, unbidden, finds its way into his face. She leans forward, her lips on his cheek. "Does that please you, love?"

It does, but he doesn't say it out loud. There's no need, he now knows. She knows.

"We must go." It's his last warning and he closes his eyes, letting his body relax as much as he can. Arya grabs one of his hands and their fingers intertwine.

She starts signing. Her voice is steady and heavenly and a second voice, clearer, higher, joins her. Life, he knows. She's gifting him to death and he lets himself go to where their voices guide him.

He doesn't understand their words, the language is foreign to him, by he understands just one sentence that clings to his soul as he leaves with Arya's hand leading.

 _Ashes to rain, you feel no pain_.

He doesn't. He feels no pain just peace.


End file.
